The Time Travelers: Volume One

by Caroline B. Cooney

I know the end of the story, she thought. I know the elms will die, but maples will take their place. It’s my own story that scares me. I don’t know the end of it.

  He touched her hair again, drawn like a gold miner to a California stream.

  She half recognized where they were. A few buildings were exactly the same as they would be a hundred years later. The ice cream parlor was in a building that no longer existed—the bank parking lot, actually. She did not tell Strat this because he was so proud of the ice cream parlor.

  It had no counter, and nobody had cones. It had darling round white tables with tiny delicate chairs. Light and slim as she was, Annie sat carefully, lest the frail white legs of her chair buckle beneath her. Ice cream was served in footed glass compotes sitting on china saucers. Their napkins were cloth, and their spoons silver with souvenir patterns.

  Strat could hardly take his eyes off her.

  He was forced to do so, however, because his best friend, Walk, as shocked as Strat had been by the girl’s clothing and hair and bare legs, came over to be introduced. “Hullo, Walk,” said Strat uneasily, getting to his feet. “Miss Lockwood, may I present my school friend, Walker Walkley.”

  She got up, smiling. “Hey, Walk. Nice to meet you.”

  Walk practically fell over. He had certainly expected her to call him Mr. Walkley. Strat flushed with embarrassment in spite of ordering himself not to. He half wanted to give Anna Sophia instruction and half wanted her to be just what she was. He fully did not want to be embarrassed in public. Nobody was pretending any longer not to see how unusual this girl was. (Strat preferred the word unusual to words like indecent or unladylike.)

  Walk knew perfectly well the last thing Strat wanted was company, so of course he said, “May I join you?”

  Why couldn’t Walk have stayed at the estate, napping after their baseball game? Why had he come into town for ice cream too? “What a pleasure,” said Strat helplessly. Miss Lockwood had already sat down, forgetting the second half of the introductions. “This is Miss Anna Sophia Lockwood, Walk.”

  “Miss Lockwood,” said Walk, bowing slightly before seating himself. “One of the Henry Lockwoods?”

  “I think he was a great-grandfather,” she agreed.

  Strat flinched, but Walk simply assumed he was being given genealogy. Luckily Walk had superior manners. Strat did not want Walk asking how they had met. Walk would never initiate such a topic. Miss Lockwood of course might initiate anything. Strat did not want to share her, and above all, he did not want to share her time travel theory.

  He kicked her lightly under the table.

  She smiled at him sweetly, a companion in lies. Neatly she settled his own cap back on his head and right there in front of the world—in the middle of a public ice cream parlor!—kissed him on the forehead.

  It was the kiss of a fallen woman, who would do anything anywhere, and Walker Walkley gasped.

  Strat heard nothing. He had never known such a creature existed on this earth, and she was his. Strat, too, fell with as much force as if he’d fallen a century.

  He fell completely and irrevocably in love with Anna Sophia Lockwood.

  * * *

  The sun set.

  Sailboats returned.

  The final marshmallows were toasted. Picnic baskets were closed. Tired families trooped over sandy paths to swelteringly hot cars.

  The last day of school. And Annie Lockwood had never come home.

  Her family tried not to panic. They made the usual phone calls: boyfriend, girlfriend, other girlfriends. The clock moved slowly into the evening, and they began to think of calling the police.

  Was it too early to call for help … or too late?

  CHAPTER 5

  “This,” said Strat, his voice full, “is my friend, Miss Lockwood.”

  Harriett, Devonny, Florinda and Genevieve, accustomed to thinking mainly of men, knew immediately what Strat’s voice was full of: adoration.

  It was worse than Harriett could have dreamed. The girl displayed bare legs, tangled hair, no hat, tanned nose and paint on her eyelids. There was a gulping silence in which good manners fought with horror. Strat was in love with this? This hussy?

  Florinda fluttered dangerously. Devonny never allowed Florinda to think she was in charge. The latest stepmother was too feathery in brain, body and clothing to be permitted any leeway. “Florinda, darling,” said Devonny, “our poor friend Miss Lockwood has ruined her clothing. I shall just rush her upstairs to borrow some of mine.”

  Harriett was filled with admiration. Devonny was so quick. And of course fashion was always a good thing, and there was no time when Devonny and Harriett, though six years apart, were not eager to think of clothes. Harriett never visited with fewer than two Saratoga trunks full of costumes, prepared for any possible fashion occasion, and she was even prepared for this one.

  “Or my wardrobe,” said Harriett. “I think Miss Lockwood is too tall for yours, Dev.”

  And what a smile Harriett received from Strat. “Oh, would you, Harry? That would be so wonderful! I thank you,” he said.

  It warmed her that Strat would bring out that little term of endearment. She waited for explanations—who Miss Lockwood was, where she had come from, and why, but Florinda interfered. “Strat, the most dreadful thing has happened. Utterly impossible. I am feeling quite undone.”

  This was always the case. Harriett was not surprised when Strat didn’t bother to ask what dreadful thing. Florinda might not even be thinking of Matthew’s death, because she was apt to be overwhelmed if the roses had black spot. Aunt Ada of course had placed herself in charge of the disposal of Matthew’s body. This was probably just as well for Strat. He could get Miss Lockwood by Florinda, and Genevieve was a mere beggar passing through, but Aunt Ada would have posed considerable difficulties.

  Strat will have to take over the Matthew situation, Harriett said to herself, and perhaps he will forget about Miss Lockwood. I can shut her in a tower and throw away the key.

  This sounded wonderful. Harriett didn’t even feel guilty. At least Miss Lockwood would have a smashing gown to wear during her imprisonment.

  It was of no interest to Walker Walkley that a servant had fallen on the stairs. Walk’s mind was seething with new plans. What great good fortune that after baseball he’d cycled straight down to the village. Strat had actually taken the little hussy home with him. Astounding how stupid men would become when their minds were overtaken by physical desire.

  Walk understood the fun that lay ahead for Strat. Walk had worked through his own household maids, having gotten two with child. Those babies were disposed of through the orphanages and the girls themselves sent on to other households. Walk’s father was proud of him.

  There was to be a huge party tonight. Strat never even glanced at Harriett, not even when he thanked her for offering her own wardrobe. Walk studied Harriett. The lovesick expression in Strat’s eyes was very hurtful to her.

  Perhaps, thought Walker Walkley, a little consolation is in order for Harriett. Me.

  Forget Devonny. Anyway, Devonny had a rebellious streak, the kind that must be thoroughly crushed in females. Mr. Stratton senior, who had spent his life crushing everyone in sight, indulged Devonny. Devonny would prove a difficult wife. Harriett, plain and desperate, was obedient … and much, much richer.

  He exulted, thinking of her money, her land, her houses, her corporations, her stocks and bonds and gold and silver. Mine, thought Walker Walkley. Mine!

  Harriett would bear the children Walk required, and be an effective mother. Meanwhile, he would also have all the fun he required. That’s what women were for.

  The key was to help Strat with his little hoyden. Walk must make it easy for Strat. Then Walk would dance with Harriett. Walk understood homely ladies. Offer them a ring and a rose and mention marriage and they were yours.

  Keep it up, Miss Lockwood! thought Walker Walkley, retiring to his room to prepare for the evening. He closed the door behind himself, and leaned
against it, laughing with glee.

  Annie, too, believed that fashion was always a good thing. She had been awestruck by what the other girls at that ice cream parlor had had on, and could hardly wait to have clothes like that herself.

  Somehow Strat had gotten her into the Mansion without explanations. In 1995, these two girls, Harriett and Devonny, would have peppered her with questions; it would have been like Oprah or Donahue. Yeah, so waddaya think you’re doin’ here, Annie?

  But in 1895, they simply stared with falling-open mouths at the sight of Annie’s bra. It was her prettiest. Pale lavender with hot pink splashes of color, like a museum painting of flowers.

  Devonny gasped. “Where—what—I mean—I haven’t—”

  Harriett said quickly, “We can lace her into something decent.”

  And they did.

  Annie would never have submitted to it, except that Harriett and Devonny showed her they were wearing the same thing. It was, thought Annie, a wire cage you could keep canaries in. The cage was flexible, and by hauling on cords fastened to each rib of the cage, they tightened it on her. It completely changed the shape of her body. Her waist grew smaller and smaller, and where it had all been crammed, Annie was not sure until she could no longer breathe. “You squished my lungs together,” she protested. “What’s happening to my kidneys and my heart? I can’t breathe!”

  “Of course you can,” said Harriett. “Just carefully.”

  “Why are we doing this?”

  “Fashion,” said Harriett.

  “Don’t you faint all the time from lack of oxygen?”

  “Of course,” said Devonny. “It’s very feminine.”

  “Does Strat approve?”

  “Strat?” repeated Devonny. “My goodness. How long have you known my brother?”

  Annie had forgotten they called each other Miss and Mister. I’m missing my cue lines, she thought. I must work harder to fit into the century. How long have I known Strat? I didn’t bring a watch into this century. “Two or three hours, I think,” she said.

  Considering the circumstances, the girls chattered quite easily. Devonny and Harriett had apparently decided she was from some low part of town. A branch of the Lockwood family that had intermarried and grown extra fingers and forgotten how to wear corsets, probably licked their dinner plates instead of washing them. It was clear that anything Hiram Stratton, Jr., wanted, he got. Even a half-naked townie.

  The door opened.

  There was no knock first. In came a girl in a brown-checked ankle-length dress covered by an enormous white apron. The apron was starched so much it could have stood alone. It was hard to guess the girl’s age. Her hands were raw like old women who scrubbed all day and never used lotion. Her face, though, was very pretty, remarkably fair complexioned. She had black hair, black eyes and a sparkly, excited look to her.

  Devonny and Harriett did not say hello, nor even look over. She might have been a houseplant.

  “Miss Devonny,” scolded the girl in a melodious voice, half singing, “how could you start dressing without me?” Not a houseplant. A housemaid.

  Annie was awestruck. Devonny’s own maid there to dress her! Clicking her tongue, the maid relaced Annie tight enough to crack ribs. Then she quickly and expertly lowered a pale yellow underdress over Annie’s head. She had never worn anything so soft and satiny against her skin.

  Devonny and Harriet sorted through Harriett’s gowns.

  “Here.” Harriett produced a daffodil-yellow dress festooned like a Christmas tree, sleeves billowing out like helium balloons around her shoulders, and looping white lace like popcorn strings. Annie felt like an illustration of Cinderella.

  Ooooh, this is so neat! she thought. And I get to dance at the ball too! I wonder what happens at midnight.

  “Bridget, what shall we do with her hair?” said Devonny.

  The maid brushed Annie’s hair hard, holding it in her hands as Strat had done. Annie adored having somebody play with her hair. Bridget looped it, pinned it, fluffed it, until it piled like a dark, cloudy ruffle. Bridget released tiny wisps, which she wet and curled against Annie’s cheeks.

  She stared at herself in the looking glass. A romantic, old-fashioned beauty stared back.

  Annie Lockwood decided right then and there to stay in this century. A belle of the ball, where men bow and ladies wear gloves. Of course, without oxygen, she was not sure how long she’d survive. If only somebody could take a photograph for her to carry home and show off.

  Annie stole a look at Harriett’s dressing table. Creams to soften the skin and perfumes from France, weaponlike hat pins and hair combs encrusted with jewels, but no eye shadow, no mascara and no lipstick. She had so much clothing on, layer after layer, and yet her face felt naked. Nobody suggested makeup. They don’t wear makeup, thought Annie. What else don’t they do?

  It occurred to her, creepily, that perhaps the photo of her had already been taken and she herself, a hundred years from now, would find it in some historical society file.

  Music had begun: the very harp she had heard falling through. From downstairs came the clamor and laughter of guests. Annie could smell cigars and pipes, hear the clatter of horses’ hooves and wooden wheels and the laughter of flirting women.

  Every wish had arrived, exactly the way Annie had daydreamed. She would dance with Strat, so unlikely and so handsome and gallant. She would pin a yellow rose on this dress fit for an inaugural ball, flirt with men in frock coats, drink from crystal goblets and laugh behind a feathered fan.

  “I will be introducing you, I expect,” said Harriett. “I fear I’m not quite sure what to say, Miss Lockwood.”

  “Anna Sophia Lockwood,” Annie told her. The name she had despised all her life sounded elegant and formal, like the dress.

  “Yes, but people will want to know—well—”

  “I’m just here briefly,” said Annie. She wanted these girls to share the mystery and astonishment. “Tell your guests that I’m passing through on a longer journey. A journey through time.”

  Harriett stared.

  Devonny interlocked her fingers within long white gloves.

  Bridget shivered and stepped back. “Are you,” whispered Bridget, “some sort of witch?”

  How ancient was Bridget’s accent. How foreign. Annie lost track of the century. Had she fallen deeper than she’d thought? Was she caught in a place where witches were burned or hung? Where was Strat?

  Maybe I am a witch, thought Annie, because what power could let me, and no other, travel through time?

  Fear trapped the girls.

  She had been a fool to hint at the time travel.

  The best defense is a good offense, she reminded herself. If it’s good enough for a field hockey locker room, it’s good enough for a Victorian dressing room. “I’m just a Lockwood,” she said lightly. “And you, Bridget?”

  “I’m a Shanrahan, miss,” said Bridget.

  “She’s Irish,” said Harriett, as if saying, She’s subhuman.

  Bridget flushed and began to dress Miss Harriett. The petticoat of silk draped over Harriett’s cage was a treasure, vivid pink, ribboned and ruffled. Next Bridget lowered a gown of hotter pink over it. Harriett’s gown was fit for a princess. It was awesome.

  And Harriett, poor Harriett, was not. She just wasn’t pretty.

  Annie’s heart broke for all plain girls in all centuries. In the looking glass, as huge and beveled as every other mirror in this great house, she saw the terrible contrast between herself and Harriett. “You’re very kind to help me like this,” Annie told her.

  Harriett seemed out of breath. The corset, Annie thought. We women are crazy. Imagine agreeing to strap yourself into a canary cage before you appear in public.

  “I saw you, Miss Lockwood!” cried Harriett. “From the tower. You and Strat.”

  A century might have fallen away, but Annie knew everything now: Harriett was in love with Strat and terrified of losing him. Annie wanted to console Harriett, who was being
so kind to her, saying, Oh, it was nothing, just plain old garden-variety friendship.

  But they had not been plain.

  I almost possess Strat, thought Annie. Harriett knows that. His sister, Devonny, knows that. Perhaps the maid Bridget knows too. He is almost mine. If I stay … Strat … the Mansion … the roses and the gowns and the servants … they would be mine too.

  She had a curious triangular thought, like the mirrors, that she must look at this only from her own point of view. If she let herself think of Harriett … But this is only a game, she thought, a dream or an electrical storm. No need to think of anybody else.

  Bridget dabbed perfume on Annie’s throat and wrists and produced the gloves with which her hands would stay covered all evening. The scent of lilacs filled Annie’s thoughts and she was seized by terror.

  What if she was on a longer journey?

  What if—when she was ready to leave—she left in the wrong direction? What if she fell backward another hundred years? Or another thousand? What if she could not get home?

  She looked out a window to remind herself of the constancy of sky and sun, but the window was stained glass: a cathedral of roses and ivy; you could not look through it, only at it.

  A clock chimed nine times and Annie thought: I’m not home.

  Mom is home now, and Tod and Daddy, supper is over, and I’m not there. They’ve called Heather, and they’ve called Kelly, and I’m not there. They’ve called Sean and he’ll say, Well, she was at the beach for a while but I don’t know what happened to her next. They’ll get scared around the edges. At the edges will be the horrible things: drowning, kidnapping, runaways, murder, rape. Nobody will say those words out loud.

  But it’s getting dark. And it will get darker, and so will my mother’s fears.

  Harriett put both arms around Annie. “Are you all right, Miss Lockwood? You looked terrified. Please don’t be afraid. You’re among friends.”

  “Oh, Harriett,” said Annie Lockwood, “you’re such a nice person.” She was overcome with guilt. I can’t do this to Harriett, she thought. But I want Strat, too. And I must have fallen through time for a reason. It must be Strat.